Feel Invincible
by DayDreamer9
Summary: This wasn't supposed to happen. After the RIP-Tire detonated, they were supposed to be dead.


_I don't own Overwatch or the Junkers (there'd be more lore content out for them if that were the case), Blizzard does. The rest is mine with credit for proofreading and editing by my friend,_ FanofMostEverything _, though the story concept came to me after listening to '_ Feel Invincible _' by_ Skillet _, hence the name, so I don't own the song either._

 _My first Overwatch fanfiction, featuring two of my favorite characters. I feel nervous, but also excited._

 _Feel Invincible_

This **wasn't** supposed to happen.

 _Shit!  
_

After the RIP-Tire detonated, they were supposed to be **dead**.

 _Shit shit shit, no no no!  
_

 **All** of them. **All** of them were supposed to be ashes. 

"Find them!" 

But they weren't. 

It took fifteen years worth of personal experience and a heck of a load of willpower for Junkrat to remain outwardly calm. Oh, and Roadhog wasn't moving. That helped too. 

_Wait. Shit!_ "Roadhog…?" His actions were calm and controlled, sure, but his voice nearly rose an octave in fear upon seeing the head of the first outlaw making its way over the hillside, "Roadie? C'mon, Mate, rise'n shine…" 

You didn't reach twenty-five years of age in the Outback by being stupid, no matter what anyone in Junkertown said; Junkrat knew when to stop laughing and now was one of those times. He knew when to stay low to the ground, when to drop his voice, when to start crouch-crawling behind the nearest obstruction for some sort of defense. 

The basics. Either you picked them up in the first couple of years after the Big Kaboom or you died, simple fact. 

"C'mon you big lug, this isn't funny!" Nevertheless, Junkrat had to struggle to keep his voice low, amber eyes wide with panic and fear as he looked from the head poking above the hill to his bodyguard beside him. 

This **wasn't** supposed to happen. 

They were **supposed** to get away: hit and run, like they'd been doing for the past several days to get supplies, getting ready for the trip out of this hellhole they still called 'home'. Junkrat had done it enough times himself to know how to pull it off without a hitch, with Roadhog providing cover fire should he be spotted. It had been working like a charm, like apples, they were almost ready to head off! 

"I think the fat one fell around here!" the head above the hill called over his shoulder to the rest of the riff-raff that had been occupying the remains of an abandoned mill. 

The irradiated winds hadn't been kind to what had likely been a very popular place of work, now a wreck of twisted wood and chipped stone. Scavengers had likely picked it clean years prior, but it was still good for shelter, naturally appealing to those who went from place to place all their lives. 

They'd spotted the mill days ago and both could tell the signs of occupation: Junkrat through experience, Roadhog through… who knew. It was **supposed** to be easy, like all the rest of those times, hit and run. 

Except there had been more than one person shacked up in that mill. 

And those people had been well-supplied. 

Including guns and ammo. 

Junkrat had to bite down on his tongue to keep from squeaking in panic, watching as a second head joined the first, heading towards the hillside. 

_No no no!_

The two Junkers never went anywhere unarmed these days, what with the bounty on both their heads (courtesy of their _beloved_ Queen,) and Junkrat had been sure a few grenades would have been enough to send the lot of them packing. Apparently, all it did was piss them off, and the two found themselves running until they were further than the drongos could throw a stick of dynamite. 

Well, okay, technically Roadhog had to **drag** Junkrat after him when the younger of the pair got offended by such "poor use of a proper munition." One kaboom later and he stopped complaining, the two attempting to return fire from what sparse cover they had behind several elevated rocks flanking the hill. 

He'd launched the RIP-Tire when all four of them had left cover, believing that they had both Junkers at their mercy, trapped between some rocks and a big drop. Catch them all off-guard, blow them to pieces, it was **supposed** to have **worked**! 

It hadn't been a miscalculation. Hell no. Not one of **his** bombs. 

Junkrat had been working with his explosives for most of his life; he knew how and where to set them up in order to get the best boom, he knew how much to use depending on the size and weight of the target in mind, he could take them apart and put them back together blindfolded. His RIP-Tires were works of art, he knew **exactly** how long they had to travel until they detonated. 

A stray bullet. That had to be it. Had to be. 

There was no other reason for the Tire to have exploded that early, he'd insisted the second he and Roadhog had stopped rolling down the embankment, getting more than enough bumps and bruises to stay with them most of the day. Except Roadhog didn't respond and he wasn't getting up, not even when poked in the place he'd warned his employer against poking him. 

The fall had knocked the older (ex-)Junker unconscious and this realization had Junkrat on the verge of losing his calm in the face of a very real, very **nasty** survival situation. 

_Not good!_ Amber eyes watched the two outlaws make their way around the rocks above, just a few feet from laying eyes on their prey. _Not good, not good, dammit!_

His first instinct was to go for his launcher, tearing his eyes away from the predators above to take a quick look at where everything else had fallen (hopefully not under Roadhog). 

He spotted the familiar ragtag frame of his handiwork only a couple feet away… snapped in half over a rock, like the ones that had undoubtedly knocked Roadhog out. It nearly made Junkrat lose his calm again, especially after a quick pat-down of his person revealed that he only had one explosive left, and a concussion mine at that. It'd been a busy day and a nasty shootout after all… 

"Dammit," Junkrat sucked in a breath, eyes flicking from the outlaws above to Roadhog laying unresponsive at his side, "Roadie-" 

He didn't know how to check another's vitals: he'd been alone for so long, such a thing hadn't been necessary. What if the tumble, the rocks, had done more than just knocked Roadhog out? What if… if- 

_Shut up!_ He shoved part of his organic fist into his mouth to cut back the whimper that very nearly poured out his throat. 

A stupid little fall wasn't going to kill Roadhog. Not Roadie, no way in hell! 

But he wasn't getting up. 

And, no matter how much junk he'd lugged around in his whole life, there was no chance that Junkrat could carry or even **drag** the big lug to safety. They were completely exposed at the foot of the hill, no other weapons available besides one mine and a hook that Junkrat had no idea how to use. Wherever the scrap gun had gotten to, it couldn't help them now. 

If Fight wasn't an option, that only left Flight. 

_Can't go nowhere without Roadie…_ Unless he- _Shut up!_

He wouldn't even think it. 

He couldn't. 

It made sense. It made oh so much sense to just get up and run, limp or not, and leave the other behind. It certainly would save him the trouble of- 

_Shut up shut up shut up_ _ **shut up!**_ Junkrat bit down harder, teeth nearly tearing fabric, nearly tearing flesh, eyes squeezing shut it an effort to block out the most basic survival instinct: Every man for himself. _**SHUT UP!**_

"Found'em!" 

Opening his eyes, he saw the two outlaws carefully making their way down the incline, both sporting shotguns raised and ready to fire at the first sign of movement. Time slowed to a crawl as they reached the halfway point, kicking up dust as their comrades shouted behind them. 

He should have run. 

He could have the treasure all to himself again. 

He could use it to barter his way out of trouble, get on their good side, live another day. 

Glancing down at Mako Rutledge, movement almost as slow as the aggressors above, Junkrat knew his mind had been made up long before their cover had been blown. 

Time went back to normal as he reached down into his bag, grabbing the mine and its detonator in one quick scoop, eyes never leaving his opponents as he shifted the latter into his organic palm and, with all the strength and accuracy he could muster, threw the mine like a boomerang toward the patch of earth right beneath the approaching men. 

He couldn't see their faces clearly as the mine bounced off the dry surface, but judging by the way the one of the left started shouting and the one of the right tripped over his own bare feet trying to turn around, they were very likely seeing their lives flash before their eyes. And that offered Junkrat a small bit of comfort as he flipped the cap open on the detonator and pressed down, all in one quick, fluid movement. 

Stone and sand exploded upward and outward, twin screams accompanying two bodies as they flew in opposite directions. One bounced almost comically upwards, head over heels, back towards the top of the hill, dropping his shotgun in the process. The second flailed wildly as he hit the slope face-first, sliding down on his stomach and screaming as stone and grit entered his eyes, nose, and mouth, skin and cloth peeling off under the momentum. 

The detonator gripped tightly in his hand, Junkrat stared at the second outlaw as he crashed into the ground only six feet away, jaw clenched tight as he looked from the man to the blade sheathed and strapped to Roadhog's back. The one he'd never so much as touched, much less knew how to use. 

The man at the bottom of the hill moaned, trying to get his hands underneath him, trying to sit up, and Junkrat stopped hesitating. Grabbing the machete handle with his right, prosthetic hand, he yanked it out of its hog-shaped sheath and broke out into a run, teeth grinding together as the detonator cracked beneath white knuckles. 

He wasn't the fastest thing in the Outback, but he was fast enough to reach the poor yobbo just as he raised himself to his knees. 

"Wh-" 

The man never had a chance to finish. With the momentum of his mad run and every bit of strength he could muster, Junkrat ran the machete blade straight through the man's throat, words dying on chapped lips as a wet gurgle took their place. 

The man's scarred hands jerked upward towards his neck. His skinned face went blank as his eyes widened before rolling up, his body sliding backwards. 

Eyes just as wide as the dead man's, Junkrat barely held onto the machete as it came free, heart pounding in his ears louder than any of his grenades, breath coming out in heavy puffs. Slowly looking down at the weapon in his metal hand, he watched as the blood ran down the its length and began to gather at the handle, a sharp scarlet against the midday sun, leaving no bit of the polished metal showing. 

Scarlet, wet and sticky. 

Dripping smooth and fluid. 

Wet and running over his- 

His whole arm jerked, hand spasming, fingers releasing the machete and letting the blade fall atop the dead man lying before him. 

Sweat rolled down Junkrat's face, but he didn't feel the desert heat in that moment. He felt nothing but cold clamping against his skin, tightening in his chest. He couldn't breathe. 

Scarlet and wet and sticky. 

He killed before. This was in no way his first time. 

But… well, he'd never been **this close** before. Always behind cover, a good distance away, letting his mines and traps do the work for him. He had next to no close combat skills. 

And yet here he was, Jamison Fawkes, standing over a man he'd just stabbed to death. 

He heard someone scream from a ways above him, but his eyes were still on the small drops of blood that had managed to fall onto orange, metallic fingers. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered what Roadhog would say when he learned what he'd- 

Roadhog. 

Junkrat still felt cold and sweaty, his mouth drier than the dirt he stood on, but he managed to turn his eyes to the second outlaw still on the slope, screaming his lungs out for backup as he reloaded his recovered shotgun. 

_Shit!_

There were no rocks to use as shelter at the foot of the hill and these men had guns. 

They had guns and he didn't. 

_Shit shit shit-_

The click of a rifle was all he needed to hear to put his brain on autopilot, shaking off what remained of his shellshock and forcing him to reach back down for the machete. Using the same amount of strength and accuracy behind his mine throw, Junkrat let the bloodied steel fly from his mechanical hand, sailing blade over hilt while a shotgun cocked up and took aim. 

The blade hit first, biting into the would-be-shooter's skull with a spray of red, jolting the man's head back. As he tipped backwards, the shotgun tilted upwards and fired, very likely a few inches above where Junkrat had been standing. 

He knew better than to stand still when there would be guns at play, dashing past where Roadhog lay prone and unresponsive, over to where his Frag Launcher lay broken in half. It couldn't return fire and there was no fixing it on the fly, he had no illusions about that, but… it still had ammo in it, right? 

It could still have ammo in the drum, couldn't it? 

He might as well have bruised one knee and broken the other, crashing to the ground like he did, dropping the detonator he'd unthinkingly crushed and grabbing for his firearm, searching desperately. 

" **Lars!** " 

"Dammit!" 

Voices. **Angry** voices. 

_SHIT!_

Buckshot sprayed, half hitting the desert floor, half the Frag Launcher, cracking the surface of both and nearly taking off Junkrat's organic hand. He yelped and fell backwards, away from the gun and onto his left side. Heart pounding in his ears, he looked up to the hillside, insides going cold as he saw the two remaining outlaws descending the slope, one in front of the other. 

The one lagging behind stopped by the side of the man with the machete in his head, laying their own firearm - a simple pistol - on the ground to try and administer some form of aid. Was he still alive? That wasn't top priority. 

Top priority was approaching him and Roadhog at a quick but cautious place, shotgun raised. This was the one who'd fired the buckshot, and he looked ready to shoot another round into Junkrat's head. 

"Greedy bastards," the rifleman snarled out, face dirty and smeared with sweat, looking Junkrat dead in the eye. "Tryin' to take our shit." The rifle cocked, steady. "If Lars's dead-" 

An anguished cry from behind them confirmed just that, which was all the warning that Junkrat needed to throw himself into a roll to avoid the next spray. Sand kicked up from the impact and the other side of the Frag Launcher cracked open, but its owner was too busy running on pure adrenaline to really care at the moment. 

Be it pure luck or some part of his brain actually paying attention to his surroundings, Junkrat found that he'd rolled closer to the man with the rifle, close enough to tackle him to the ground. 

Which Junkrat did. 

When did he do it? He really didn't remember... 

No idea. No time to think. 

"Son of a-" the outlaw roared and tried to slam the forestock of his shotgun into the lankier Junker's face, only to be blocked by an orange prosthetic forearm that thankfully didn't crack under the force, "I'll **skin you alive!** " 

Though his heart was ready to break free of his ribcage, Junkrat flashed his assailant the toothy grin that presented itself whenever things went his way. The outlaw would have sworn again… if he hadn't noticed the small red ball in the other's metal fingers, almost innocent-looking if it weren't for the matching smile. 

"You-" He had no time to form a proper threat/plea as Junkrat grabbed the shotgun with his organic hand and pushed it down against the man's chest with one good shove, allowing him to lunge forward and cram the grenade into his opponent's open mouth. 

"Surprise!" And off he rolled and rolled some more, until he found his head bumping into a still unconscious Roadhog's shoulder, instinctively hiding his head behind the elder Junker's girth. 

He'd just 'tucked in' when the explosion happened, not too loud - muffled, almost - but still a prominent boom that made Junkrat sigh with relief against his bodyguard's armor. 

That… oh God, that had been **close**. 

So fucking **close** , it was kind of funny. 

"No worries," Junkrat sighed again, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position, squinting as the red-tinted smoke hit his now-exposed eyes, "Roadie, we-" 

A bullet buried itself a mere inch from Roadhog's shoulder, where Junkrat's head had been just a second earlier. 

" _ **You bastard!**_ " 

The scream was female. Female and angry and hoarse as the smoke hit the wind. 

Slowly, eyes peeling away from the bullet hole, Junkrat turned to its source. 

The final outlaw was half-running, half-sliding down the last stretch of hillside, pistol in both hands and aiming through the smoke, fingers shaking as her feet connected with solid ground. 

Another scream and she fired again, snapping Junkrat out of his momentary trance, something burning against his face as he watched her charge into the smoke cloud that separated them. 

No more bombs, the machete halfway up the hillside, his Launcher an absolute mess. 

He was unarmed. 

He didn't give a damn. 

Junkrat didn't know when he'd gotten to his feet and he didn't care, just like he didn't care about the gun or the smoke, didn't care about anything else as what could only be described as a roar came out of his throat and he charged towards where he'd last seen the woman. Hands balled into fists, his only weapon, as another gunshot tore through the weakening smokescreen, but by that time, it was too late. 

His organic fist struck first, hitting metal and hitting it hard, making a crack and a startled wail as he drove the pistol into the woman's face. Blood spurted from her nose, one hand releasing the gun while the other managed to hang on, trying to reestablish her aim when the metal fist slammed into her nose directly. 

Another wail and the woman went down, Junkrat pursuing her, both hands lunging for her throat, fingers flesh and metal wrapping around it with ease. The impact with the ground had stunned her enough to make her drop the gun, hands flailing and breath catching as he forced her windpipe shut. 

Wide brown eyes looked up into a pair of amber alight with so much more than the flames of madness. Oh no, madness took a backseat to the gamut of emotions racing through Junkrat at the moment. 

Fear. Pain. Indignation. Hate. Relief. Rage. Roadhog. 

Roadhog. 

This bitch had nearly **shot** Roadhog. 

She could have killed him. He may be dead already from the fall. 

And it was all because of- 

Of- 

Strange sounds came from the woman's mouth as his fingers dug into her throat like worms wriggling through soil, her own digits clawing over his hands, up his arms, digging trails of red in his skin as she fought for the air he denied her. The sounds became more desperate as the seconds ticked by, fingernails finding his shoulders, his face, clawing and clawing, trying to find some sort of purchase as they dug deep into ash-coated, sweat-stained flesh. 

Junkrat never loosened his grip, eyes aflame, burning holes into a face that had probably been pretty once, at tanned skin paling to white as air was cut off from lungs affected by desert heat, from a brain likely as radiation-addled as his own, the will to survive burned into both of them by the Big Kaboom twenty years back. 

The sounds she made became weaker and weaker, drier and fainter, but he never stopped squeezing, never stopped replaying the sight of the RIP-Tire exploding too early, of Roadhog lying motionless on the ground, of the bullet embedding itself a mere inch away from his body. 

The woman's hands finally fell away from his own throat, flopping to the ground as her head lolled back in his hands, but he still kept squeezing. No more sounds came out of her mouth, eyes wide in a dead stare up at the too blue sky overhead, yet noise still filled the space around them. 

Junkrat didn't care, continuing to fight even as life left his opponent's body, ignoring the burning trails on his arms and face, the hottest against his temple. His left shoulder had long since gone numb and he was starting to lose feeling in his flesh fingers, but still he fought, breathing coming in labored and frantic, a wheezing whimper escaping clenched teeth as something cold began to take shape in his stomach. 

A warm, heavy weight fell on his uninjured shoulder. 

A warm, heavy, _familiar_ weight. 

Breath still coming out in wheezing gasps, Junkrat nearly broke his own neck whipping it around and upwards, eyes drawn to the small trickle of red right above the right eye of the gas mask before taking in anything else. 

Feverish amber reflected off a pair of glossy black lenses, slightly dusty from the faceplant. The air filter released heavier intakes and exhales than normal. 

Junkrat's pulse still echoed in his ears, his left arm ready to go limp any second, but the sheer relief flooding through him nearly made him collapse against the dead outlaw beneath him. His fingers painfully unwound from her neck, his mechanical set making a noise of protest after the abnormal pressure. In the back of his mind, smothered beneath the relief, he took note to check his prosthetics for damage later. 

Later. 

As in **not** now. 

Now… 

"...Roadie." 

His voice… why did it sound like that? 

The silence of the older Junker seemed to shift, the hand on his shoulder slightly tightening, an unspoken warning: _What did I tell you about calling me that?_

Junkrat's mind nearly blanked out, the only thought a name. Hs legs felt as though they were made of water as he stood up, even his prosthetic knee feeling ready to give out. The hand on his shoulder shifted as his own pair latched onto its torso, thinner arms trying to surround the muscular girth as his wheezing got louder and louder still, his voice still sounding strange as he tried and failed to form a sentence that sounded even halfway coherent. 

Roadhog, in the meantime, wondered if he'd awoken to a concussion. It would be far from the first time given his employer's strange habits and quirks. This also wouldn't be the first time that Junkrat had invaded his personal space (which no amount of death threats seemed to deter) or had initiated some sort of physical contact. It had taken the ex-Enforcer a good week to get used to his **boss** giving him a **hug** whenever he got excited, before which he'd flung the idiot off (which also had little to no effect). 

But this was different. 

The younger Junker was covered in scratches with blood dripping down his left side, his grip feeling more desperate, clinging to him as though his life depended on it, and he was very clearly hyperventilating in a manner **not** indicative of excitement. 

He'd seen the decapitated outlaw in front of him when he'd awoke, saw the two bleeding out on the hillside, saw the dead woman with a pale face that his partner in crime had been choking. There'd been a fight while he'd been out, a violent one, one against four… 

While Roadhog had been out. 

This idiot had defended him. 

He didn't move while Junkrat clung to him, frame shuddering with every rapid intake and exhale of breath. He studied the wound in Junkrat's shoulder and the graze along the side of his head, having to use two large fingers to adjust his head to see the latter. 

_Gunfire._ No doubt about it. _All four were armed._ A quick scan of the surroundings found the broken Frag Launcher. _He wasn't._ And yet he'd fought their pursuers to the death. _No..._

He saw the glint of metal on the hill by a man with a gun on his chest, one too grimy to give any kind of shine. A quick check with his free hand confirmed it. 

_My blade. A bomb. Probably two._ It'd certainly explain the messy decapitation. _All on his own._

He knew that the scrawny idiot had managed to stay alive for twenty years on his own before his so-called 'lucky break,' but everyone and their mother knew that Junkrat wasn't the close-combat sort. And yet… 

This idiot had **defended** him. 

"Should've run," he grunted aloud. His inspection unintentionally turned Junkrat's face up to his own. 

Was he…. no, he couldn't be- 

Junkrat's head was a blur as he shook it, the blood from the cuts staining Roadhog's fingers. 

…Dammit, he **was**. 

"Fifty-fifty," the words were almost unintelligible coming from Junkrat's mouth, tears carving narrow trails through the sheen of sweat. 

Everyone and their mother knew that the scrawny Junker wasn't the close-combat sort and yet he'd put his life on the line for Roadhog's sake, taking out four armed nomads with barely anything. 

_What the hell is wrong with this idiot?_ Roadhog continued to stare down at him, watching as tears continued to flow from feverish eyes. 

Compassion and loyalty were close to nonexistent in the Outback, two of the thousands taken by the explosion he caused, and the last place he'd expected to find them was in his mad employer. The craziest among the Junkers were often the ones who'd lost the most, and he'd spent enough time with Junkrat to know that his time alone had left him with scars not even his widest grins could hide. 

And yet… 

Roadhog stood there for some time, watching his partner cry into his belly, whole body shaking and ready to give out. He watched him, hand now resting on his opposite shoulder, before letting out a sigh. 

"... Yeah."


End file.
